Chain Gang All Stars

Tracy Lasser sits at a desk ready to speak to the world.

“Opal opted to exit Oxenfurt with only an optometer.” She looked at the camera once, then practiced slowly shifting to camera two, a move Lee, the set director, had pushed her to do more often in the weeks leading up to this moment. The weeks leading up to the day her dream would come true.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Opal opted to exit Oxenfurt with only an optometer.” She measured her words, tried to snap each of them just enough. She tugged on the dress she was wearing. It snagged a little around the hips, but she agreed with her in-studio stylist, Tom, that it would shine on-screen, a tan body-contouring piece with maroon accents. Her hair looked good too. She’d known this wig, a custom that cost north of a month’s rent, would be part of her debut, her partner. She’d named the wig Stella.

She turned her head back to camera one, Stella following her movements magnificently.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of—”

“Don’t worry, you’re gonna do fine,” Elton Vashteir, her other debut partner, said, smiling at her in his way. A smile that said, Most of my problems can be solved by looking at people with this face.

“Thanks, Elton,” Tracy said.

She closed her eyes and imagined her parents gathered around the cast screen projector in Old Taperville. The same parents who’d asked the school to make a copy of the morning broadcasts she’d done in the sixth grade. The ones who’d thrown a party the first time she’d reported on a sideline for a local network. And now they’d get to see her on SportsViewNet anchoring Sports Central, America’s number one sports program, or so it said on all the hoodies and sweatshirts she’d sent back home. She’d wanted to make them proud for so long, and this moment’s arriving as it was about to made her feel sick to her stomach.

Just before getting to work she’d felt a panic so harsh she could hear the thrum of blood in her ears like raging river waters. As a reflex she’d grabbed her phone, and when she picked it up, she saw there was a cast from her dad. Just seeing the notification eased the sound of pumping blood. She’d set her phone on the table and said, “Establish holoview link,” and then there was her father’s face.

“You ready? I’m calling,” she’d watched him yell to no one she could see, but she knew who would be there with him.

“Wait a second.” Her mother’s voice came through clearly although she still couldn’t see her.

“Well, I started it already. Oh, what in the hell is that?”

Her father squinted into his caster, trying to make sure he could see and be seen.

“Who told you to go and do that?” her mother said as her face appeared beside her father’s.

“I was just trying to set it up so we wouldn’t be late. It’s running now, I think, so don’t mess me up.”

“You already messed up enough,” her mom finished, and then the two of them were staring at their daughter.

“Hey, baby,” her mom said.

“Hey, Quickness,” her father said, a big grin on his face.

Quickness first had become her nickname because she’d been quick to anger, quick to fight as a kid. Nobody from her little nowhere town messed with Tracy because everybody knew she’d swing on you with the quickness. It worked out that she’d taken a liking to the two-hundred-meter and four-hundred-meter sprints in high school. Back when she was the one being interviewed by reporters for breaking records with her relay team.

“Hey, Mama, hey, Daddy,” she said.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Her father’s voice came through the cast so clearly.

“It’s nothing. I’m just excited,” she said, and carefully dabbed the wet under her eyes away so no dark tears would stain her face.

“Well, we know it’s a lot. But we love you. We know you’ll do beautifully,” her mother said.

“Thanks, Mama,” Tracy said. She was now fully weeping. She had time to go back to makeup and reset. She covered her face from her parents. “I don’t know,” she said. And it was wild to think. This dream she’d had for so long, one she’d had since she busted her MCL at the South New Florida Relays and her own athletic career had ended. It was finally happening.

“Listen, Quickness, you’re too good ever to have any kind of worry. We’re already so proud of you.” When her father spoke, Tracy always felt better. But today his words made her feel worse.

“No matter what, we got you, baby. You’re gonna do great.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

“What about me!”

“You too, Daddy.”

“I’m just messing with you. We love you, okay?”

“I know. I love you too.” They looked at one another. Tracy forced a smile. “I was just nervous, I think. I’m gonna go to makeup again. All right?”

“Okay!” her parents said in tandem, making it clear that they were nervous too.

“We’ll talk after you broadcast all over the world,” her father said.

“Now, why would you say that, the girl just told you sh—”

“Bye, guys.”

“Love you,” her parents had said again together. She’d made a wiping-away gesture with her hands and the holo link had ended.

Then she’d gone to makeup and gotten reset.

She had worked a very long time to be there. She was going to look good for it.

—

Sitting at the Sports Central main desk with cameras one, two, and three looking at her and Elton, Tracy tried her best not to retch. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled p—”

“I promise, you’ll be fine. Don’t stress. You know how to read. You’ve done great already. The only difference is that this time the world is watching. But calm down.” Elton rolled his chair over her way. “I’m here with you.” He touched her thigh and rubbed up and down the cloth of her dress. “Love this on you, by the way. You look great.”

Tracy looked at Elton and felt her fear turn to heat. “I’m calm,” she said, and straightened up, pushing his hand away. She’d made it clear the first time he’d rubbed her shoulders in a “friendly way” that she did not want to be touched. And her making that clear had done almost nothing to change his behavior. In fact, over the last several months that she’d been in studio training, he’d made it perfectly clear that as long as he was thee Elton Vashteir he was going to do exactly as he wanted. For now, it was glancing brushes, friendly rubs, but it was clear what came next.

“We’re live in forty seconds,” the director said in her ear. Tracy nodded as Elton rolled back to his spot three feet away, in front of his notes. She had her notes, her own stylus. She was an anchor on Sports Central. Only the second Black woman in the decades-long history of the show.

She scanned the notes in front of her. It wasn’t a surprise to see an old friend’s name on the breaking-news report. An old teammate. She blinked quickly. She would not cry, though she wanted to break down completely.

“Twenty seconds.”

She thought, as they counted down, about what it was to love sports, what it was like to accept a baton and sprint. To be part of a team. She’d loved what it meant to want something that badly. She’d loved running as fast as she could. The feeling of finding the finish line and looking back, knowing that what was left on the track was all you had. And she loved how in triumph or in loss you could discover avenues toward growth. Who was better? Me or you? Us or them? Me yesterday or me today?

The four hundred relay was the pinnacle of most meets. She’d wanted to be anchor her senior year and instead she’d been the third leg.

“Live in ten.”

The anchor, the person whom she’d passed the baton to, was a superhuman athlete. A girl who was so strange and so herself even in high school that she was beloved by most everyone she met. Her talent made her the gem of the district.

At the South New Florida Relays, her senior year, Tracy had received a good baton pass. A blind exchange. She put her hand out and trusted her teammate. She felt the smooth metal in her palm, then she flew. Hard and heavy. Leave everything on the track. But at about three hundred meters: a pop in her right leg. Her speed melted to a limp. She begged her body to move but it did not. She saw the backs of the other girls bolt past her. She’d torn a ligament but wouldn’t know that for some time. All she knew then was that she wasn’t going to be the person she’d hoped, not anymore. But even as all those girls flew away, her teammate, her anchor, Hamara Stacker, was running toward her, then pulling her through, carrying her on her shoulders, supporting most of Tracy’s weight. She laid Tracy down when she’d finished the leg and said, “Damn, girl, you ain’t have to go that fast. Lemme see what I can do.” And then took off. And somehow, she’d made Tracy smile, even as the pain in her leg grew to a real thing, even though of course they’d lost and been disqualified. Even though there was nothing left to win, Hammy finished out. The medics were upon Tracy before Hammy had crossed the line, but still Hamara had found a way to make it to the ambulance to wave goodbye before the doors closed and Tracy was alone with an assistant coach and the medics.

—

“Live in five, four, three, two—”

“Hello and welcome, good people, to Sports Central,” Elton started. “It’s been a busy weekend in the world of athletics, and as you might have guessed there’re a couple of dominant women right at today’s lead. But before we get into that, I hope you’ll welcome another incredible woman to the Sports Central team.”

“Thank you, Elton,” Tracy said. She had two sentences of intro before jumping into a recap of the latest deathmatches.

“What a dream it is to talk sports on this stage. It’s an honor to be here.” She looked over at Elton, and he smiled for her, for the country. She turned to the teleprompter. “And as Elton said, today we’re going to kick things off with the exploits of Loretta Thurwar and the woman you know as Hurricane Staxxx.”

On monitor two there was a clip of Staxxx speaking to the crowds. Here Tracy was meant to give an overdub as the recapped clips continued over the television.

“Funny thing is,” Tracy said, and immediately she felt the energy in the room shift, “I know Hurricane Staxxx very well. She was a great friend of mine. We called her Hammy. She was one of the best athletes I’ve ever known. But what she’s doing now, what this program is telling you is sports—it’s not sports.

“I wanted to be a part of this program to talk about achievement, not murder, not lynching, not death. But in the past few months this program I’ve dreamed of being a part of for years has adopted the practice of airing exactly that: murder, lynching, death. I hoped it would be a phase that would quickly pass. I was wrong. Shame on you, Sports Central. My name is Tracy Lasser”—and now the clips were over, and the camera had no choice but to blink back to her—“and I stand in solidarity with those around the country who have demonstrated against so-called hard action-sports. I support the repeal of B3 and all so-called hard action-sports just as I support ending the death penalty. We are fighting for a more humane society. Thank you for your time.”

She got up. Elton’s mouth hinged open. Then he turned back to the camera.

“Well, that’s one way to make your debut. Always something interesting here at the Central.”

“Fuck off, Elton,” Tracy said, and then she walked off the set toward her dressing room. Toward the rest of her life. She waited for the sound of cutting to commercial.

“What the fuck just happened?” Elton screamed once they were off-air. “What in the fuck just happened here?”

She went to collect her things. And when she walked off the set with tears in her eyes, she was smiling, because when it came down to it, she was exactly who she’d hoped she’d be.